


Vertigo

by Jeepers_Creepers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Deacon is a scaredy cat, Fluff, Gen, Prompt Fic, who also cant help but make lame jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeepers_Creepers/pseuds/Jeepers_Creepers
Summary: Deacon doesn't like heights. The only problem? He's not too fond of deathclaws, either.





	Vertigo

"Do you trust me?" 

"No." It was almost a joke between them by now -- no matter how many times Deacon asked, the answer was always the same. Sometimes, Mockingbird would smile when she said it, and _others_..? He preferred not to think about those; he probably still had the scars.

Well, okay, maybe not _physical_ scars but it sounded better that way. Added some flair. Kinda like balancing on a beam four stories up with a deathclaw chewing through rubble to get to you. Maybe not as piss-inducing, though. Incidentally, pissing was what was exactly on his mind as it happened. Go figure.

Mockingbird had locked the door behind them, as pale as a ghost, and they gulped down breaths as silently as they could (which, for the authenticity of this recounting: _is never as silent as you hope it is._ ) Granted, even vaulties, with their stylish wrist-bands and wild-eyed horror at everything the Commonwealth had to offer knew door + Deathclaw = _book it._

Despite what you may believe, Deacon had never once seen them stop to bother unlocking one. Nope. They came in, trashed your new settee, ate your first-born, and then didn't even close the door behind them. They were _so_ off the barbecue list, stuck just behind Danse. At least the 'claws could make it through a dinner party without calling ghouls 'ferals'.

The crumbling walls started to reverberate, and Mockingbird's steel eyes met his, "We've gotta go." Up she went, leaving him with the door that read _'David Phelps, Urologist'_ and a strange feeling like the universe was laughing at him.

The place used to be a raider nest, and it already smelled like death. Multiple deaths, actually, all rolled into one. _A death burrito_ , if you will. He really wouldn't've minded clocking in one of his spa days then. Deathclaw on one side, yawning, gaping, unending...pointy void on the other.

The hole was huge -- it must have been fifteen feet across, and leave it to raiders to have the worst way across possible: a plank of wood. Just one. Not two, or three, or even a bridge, maybe. No, what are they, _sane_? They wanted to teeter across a two-hundred year old piece of wood and kick logic in the face. Take candy from babies, see who can spit farther into the unending pit of doom...A pit which Mockingbird was now approaching.

 _"Mockingbird,"_ he whispered urgently, "you _totally_ aren't doing what I think you're doing." Deacon creeped up to the edge, farther away from the sound of the deathclaw lumbering up four flights of stairs (a funny thought, admittedly, if it's not headed towards you) and closer to the spit pit. "Man, vertigo is more than a movie, let me tell you," he joked, not sounding half as horrified as he felt.

"If I fall, tell Nick he's in charge." _Oh no._ Her voice was too far away. Slowly, Deacon craned his neck up from the dark rubble at the bottom of the pit to look at Mockingbird, who was already five feet across the board. He was on his feet and at the edge of the pit before you could say ‘horrified'. Was there a nice way to say, _'Hey, totally cool you're fine with it, but can you please stop doing what you're doing because I can feel my heart bruising my ribs right now?'_

If there was anything he admired the Railroad's rookie for, it was staying cool under pressure. While Deacon sat there and questioned whether his breakfast of Sugar Bombs and Blamco was going to make a reappearance, Mockingbird slipped to the other side with cat-like grace and flashed him an encouraging smile. If Deacon were anyone else he wouldn't have noticed the subtle shaking in her hands. Everyone had their tell.

If he had the time, he probably would have been touched: she didn't want to worry him. Hey, not a kindness he deserved, but it was nice to know the person he was going to die with would probably say some nice things at his funeral. 

The relief that came with Mockingbird making it to solid ground was almost immediately swallowed by the fear that came with the deathclaw slamming into the concrete wall that separated him from sharp teeth and doom. _Yikes._ The first hit almost sent him careening headfirst into the void, and Deacon was betting against the home team here. It wasn't something he could talk himself out of with finger guns and bad jokes: last time he checked, deathclaws didn't stop ripping into your guts to listen to your story, no matter how awesome a lie it was.

"Deacon!" Mockingbird was serious, worry creasing her pretty pre-war features. At least someone was batting for the home team.

 _Okay, okay, focus, Deacon._ He placed one foot on the plank, looking down at his ripped sneakers -- pale blue over death black. _At least I'm not in heels, right?_

The door was shredded like paper, and the spy couldn't help a horrified look over his shoulder. A reptilian eye peered in through the gap, breath heavy enough he could feel it fan his face. _Wow._

He was frozen, the fear tingling up his spine and locking up all his joints. It was like the worst interpretative dance piece to date. _Man in Utter Terror, Part 1._ Just a dude on stage stuck in one spot for fifteen minutes. Heard it got great reviews, though.

"Deacon! If you're gonna live to lie about this one you have to cross!" He wanted to shoot back something stupid and reveal this was all a big joke: just Deacon worrying you over nothing again, _surprise_! He'd get a box of Blamco to the face and he'd deserve it. Laugh, move on, live to spy another day. But he couldn't move despite all of his body screaming that he was an idiot, his legs were noodles and he was about to be soup. 

_"Look at me!"_

Something about the strain in Mockingbird's voice got him to turn his head. She was digging through her pack and quickly loading a rifle, "It's not my job to tell you when to die, alright, but it's not gonna be now and it's not gonna be with me. Just put one foot in front of the other and focus on breathing and don't look down." Well, the least he could do was listen to one of four people who cared if he lived or died, right?

Deacon righted himself and took his first step over the pit, staring down into the rubble below and feeling greener than he could remember in a long time. " _Look at me_ , don't look down," Mockingbird insisted. Now that? That he could do.

The sickening sound of the first bricks tumbling left her with an addendum: "You know how you always ask if I trust you?" her voice was remarkably level. "If you trust me at all: Run. _Now._ "

Punctual as ever, she sent the first round into the deathclaw's face just as Deacon felt the board shift from the vibrations as the monster bulldozed through the wall towards him. Despite his current status as chicken noodle soup, instinct or courage or his partner got him to kick it in gear and he booked it. In hindsight, a gigantic lizard running after you is probably a good enough motivator for most.

The board slipped and slid under his feet as the bullets whizzed over his head, but inside his head Deacon's only mantra was _'get to Birdy, get to Birdy, get to Birdy.'_ He could only hope she could keep the lizard off his back in the mean time.

A shot rang out and the deathclaw let out a roar that cracked his sunglasses. It probably left him a little deaf, too, but he pushed forward and made it across to Mockingbird, hearing be damned.

Well, he practically ran her over, really, but she caught him -- the perfect knight in shining armor for his damsel in distress. For once, Deacon didn't care how he looked. He clutched onto Mockingbird for dear life, hands twisted in the leather of her jacket and arms flung around her in what was probably the shittiest hug of her life. It was an _'Oh my God I can't believe I'm not dead'_ hold, and Deek still had the strong urge to vomit as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Regardless, Mockingbird held fast and the last shot cracked like thunder next to his ear. If they weren't already ringing, that probably would have hurt. Was that a lose/win? Or a lose/lose?

Just making it to the other side used up all his luck for ohhh, say, the next thirty years? Give or take a few. His math was rusty. 

He cracked an eye open in time to see the big lizard bite the dust. It teetered, dazed from the lead to it's brain, but Deacon still felt Mockingbird's heart hammering in her chest. Then _bon voyage, lizard bastard._

It staggered forward, walking straight into the pit and landing four stories below with such a shudder he and Mockingbird got a shower of debris from the floor above them.

Chests heaving, hugging for the first time, and covered in a fine layer of white powder, they couldn't help but stare at one another. Another clatter signified the board joining the deathclaw on the bottom floor and splintering. Looking at those gray eyes, Deacon _had_ to say something.

" _Soooo_ , elevator next time?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt response from my fallout blog that got so long I decided to post it on Ao3 (because evidently I can do nothing in moderation lol).
> 
> Questions? Comments? Kudos? All rad and very much welcomed. Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> If you like the way I write Deacon and Mockingbird, you can mosey on over to [Don't Take It Personal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8679049/chapters/19896439) for an edited, on-going fic starring the duo!


End file.
